


Cold, mashed swede

by mimarie



Category: Doctor Who / Torchwood
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-10-01
Updated: 2009-08-24
Packaged: 2017-10-13 03:39:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 17,024
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/132429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mimarie/pseuds/mimarie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>...but he can't for the life of him remember what Michael Palin's character was called. He's seen it so many times, watched reruns on Film Four, even stood on one leg and recited Russian verbs for Kathy once, just to see her laughing (although that might have been the sock suspenders - she should know better than to tease him about the accent), but can he name the man with the chips up his nose? Can he <em>fuck</em>...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **betas:**[](http://aeshna-uk.livejournal.com/profile)[ **aeshna_uk**](http://aeshna-uk.livejournal.com/) and [](http://jwaneeta.livejournal.com/profile)[**jwaneeta**](http://jwaneeta.livejournal.com/)

  
It's lunchtime.  
It's definitely lunchtime, but he's not getting his hopes up; the room-service is dire. It was one of the first things he noticed and it's not getting any better. He's been watching the clock for... oh, nearly three hours now, and there's still no sign of anyone with his lunch. If it carries on like this, he's not leaving a tip.  
But all the same - it is lunchtime. The clock _says_ it's lunchtime. And if the clock says it's lunchtime then time for lunch is what it is, because the clock doesn't lie. Not that it means there'll be any actual food, but he can be patient. He knows how to wait - he ought to; he's had plenty of practice - and he's not going anywhere. Of course, the fact that he's chained to the bulkheads might have something to do with that.  
That settles it - definitely no tip.  
He's had better rooms, too: there's not much of a view (the back of the guard's head is surprisingly dull), that recliner he pre-booked wasn't delivered - and when the secondary engines kick in on a low-level flight, his bowels void and his eardrums bleed. But it's well ventilated, which is something, and - as long as no one's actively slaughtering him at the time - he can usually come up with something to keep himself occupied. Preferably something that doesn't involve the steam-hose or the bucket. Although, that does at least mean he gets some company for a while, if only because the guards complain otherwise. The man (no names, twitches to _Mr Jones_ ) tries not to look but does anyway, grateful that it's not him. The woman (fierce eyebrows, sad face - why even ask) looks away. Like the younger one, _her_ sister, the one who still blushes, even after two, three (five?) months. But he's still only human, whatever else he is, and if they will feed him on cold, mashed swede - no butter, no pepper - then what do they expect?  
And no salt either. Or garlic. He misses garlic. And cheese. Cheese on toast. And onions. Fried onions. Onion rings. Cheese and onion crisps. Salt and vinegar chipsticks -  
- _chips._  
But he's not thinking about food. He _doesn't_ think about food. He thinks about the future, because it's all there ahead of him. With or without food, or water, or air - or even blood (the water was hot that time, to wash off the maggots. Scalding hot, with disinfectant and bleach. He could taste it for a week, even over the swede). No, the future's there all right; he can remember it - although it shifts when he thinks too hard. And it seems kind of pointless to complain about niggling little changes like the decimation of the human race when he's pretty sure his ancestors are all dead and he isn't due to be conceived for another thirty centuries.  
Although, if he's honest, in a strange sort of way it's been almost restful. Nowhere to go, no decisions to make - not even takeaway or eat-in - and the world's gone to hell already, so he's probably excused duty there too.  
Of course there are things he'd change given the opportunity - which he won't be, so that's not a problem either - but it's given him time to think. Lots of it. More than he's had for over a century. And he's the practical sort, so he's made a few decisions. He's got nowhere to make notes and nothing to write with, or a free hand to hold the pen even if he had one, but he's got a good memory, and it's not like he's got anything else to do at the minute - there being no lunch, and it being lunchtime and all that.  
So, number one - first on the list: When he gets back to Cardiff, he's building an extension on the Hub. It's going to have a kitchen, a view whichever way he looks, and an en suite bathroom (he's still working on the details, but he's thinking _two_ Jacuzzis - just so there's no arguing about the temperature). A big comfortable chair, too. No, _lots_ of big comfortable chairs - on wheels, with squishy arm-rests and recliners. And a table: A big one; space for five with plenty of elbow room and a couple over. Because Tosh is good (damn good, and he's planning on telling her so when he sees her again. Positive, see? He's going to go home and home's going to be waiting for him when he gets there) - but every secret organisation needs a dedicated satellite-communications expert. Maybe he'll seduce someone away from the CIA or NSA, at least then they'll have the basics to build on. Shame he didn't think of it ...oh, maybe two years ago?  
Anyway.  
He doesn't complain. Apart from there being no point, he's too busy to spare the time, most days. So many plans - so many decisions to make: chips or rice or both; how to redecorate the Hub when he gets back; what colour to paint the lead he's going to line the ceiling with; where to build the new kitchen and how much Ianto will spend on a coffee machine given free-rein; how he's going to kill the Master; if the budget will stretch to a flat with a view over the Bay (chips _and_ rice. And gravy); how to persuade the Doctor to drop him off a selection of audio books in those neat little pop-in earpieces from the 27th century - about a week ago should do it; whether to start with the Radox or the Badedas; should he buy new socks in M &S or stick to Millets...  
Not rice - chips. And haddock. No, mackerel. And then doughnuts. Or maybe battered cod first. With chips.  
He's going to kill him. He's going _home_.  
And tomato sauce. And salt. And too much vinegar.  
But that's another decision he doesn't have to make. Because as far as the head chef at _Chez Valiant_ is concerned it's nouvelle cuisine all the way. None of that awful meat and two veg (and none of _that_ either), and he doesn't remember asking for the set menu, but apparently it's too late to change his order now. Which means there'll be swede.  
Only right now there isn't. And it's lunchtime.  
It's _lunchtime_ and it's three days since the last time it was lunchtime - the sort that came with food, anyway (or at least swede), and three days since the time before that - hell, maybe if there's nothing today either then it just means he's bored of his new game already and couldn't be bothered to tell anyone. Pretty pathetic, really, for a Master of time and space, but if it was keeping him amused...  
Then again - it's been at least a fortnight since he killed him so maybe he's decided to see what he looks like starved this time. Just for a bit of variety. He's tried it before - didn't enjoy it then, he'd tell him if he asked - possibly - but he won't ask so he won't tell and the week's just not getting any better. If this is his idea of entertainment he'll pass, thanks all the same.  
He's not too hot on entertainment, this Time Lord, this _Master_ \- not for the minions, anyway. Not like the Doctor and his satellite TV, the library, the lecture tours and excursions, the swimming pool and bathrooms...  
Nothing like that here. Zilch, zip, nada. Not even an X-Box to stop his mind wandering - and he's not suggesting it, because watching Tetris 3-D scroll endlessly with the controller by his feet and the volume up high is the kind of torture than might just appeal to that fucking psychopath. No, he'd rather the swede. Or even not. And he lived through the war (several times now, or does it just feel that way?); he can make his own entertainment - famous for it, in fact. Some things don't even need anyone else to be fun. Which - what with that whole 'not having any hands free' business - is something else he's not thinking about.  
So - no. This isn't the Hub - and whatever Owen says he could beat him with both hands... no way, no siree - no video games for the Captain. He's a man with a plan. Even if it would work better with a free hand - even better a pencil and paper - he's not a defeatist. He'll work with what he's got. And the gridlines are good - if he squints he can narrow it down to the square; nine-by-nine - Toshiko's pretty, serious face in profile, glasses sliding down her nose, end of the pen in her mouth, mumbling, preoccupied, _'can't be a three, seven, eight, two...'_ He ended up with two nines in the same row yesterday, but he's pretty sure if he can concentrate over that smell he'll get it out this time.  
Only it's lunchtime - the clock says so and his stomach agrees. It's _lunchtime_ and he's either hallucinating scents again or the Master was enjoying his game more than he let on. Is it really three days? It's hard to work it out; how many times has it been lunchtime with no lunch since the last time there was lunch at lunchtime? It was swede - cold, mashed swede - so that's no help. And there he was -  
 _'...And I thought - I haven't seen Jack in a while, so here I am! Let's do lunch.'  
'Fuck you.'  
'Sorry, Captain, you're not really my type. But no hard feelings, eh - fancy a chip?'_  
"Bastard."  
It rings round the walls. Watching the guard jump he thinks _'B-flat'_ , and he's tempted to harmonise with his own echo, see if he can work up a bit of a melody. He doesn't though. It might be distracting, but it's too much like the story of his life - even though it has been a boring sort of day so far. Apart from the smell - and it's not going away, so maybe if he sings loud enough the nice man with the gun will just shoot him and get it over with. For now.  
But it's just a smell. It doesn't mean anything. If it's possible to reroute the _Valiant'_ s exhaust outlets (messy - hot and smelly and _very_ messy: he will _not_ be testing that theory about losing limbs again any time soon) there's no reason they can't do the same with the extractors in the mess. Although... now he's thinking about it, it does seem to be getting stronger; coming closer. Close enough to have him craving salt, eager taste-buds at the ready. And he's not imagining it, even the guard's starting to shift, standing straighter - looking uncomfortable.  
But then, the footsteps might just have something to do with that too.  
"Time for din-dins? Hope you don't mind if I join you."  
And there he is; right on cue - a punctual megalomaniac with flip-top grin and a Janet-and-John vocabulary - what more could he possibly need? Apart, that is, from a free hand and the source of that _smell_. Just swallow it down and wait. Don't give him anything to twist, anything to use. Don't give him _anything_. Just try not to breathe through the nose and watch the grin widen - so amused, so interested - so fucking deranged....  
It always surprises him just how familiar that smile is; big and enticingly cheerful - reassuring. It's the smile that said, 'trust me. I'm decent, reliable and in no way psychotic.' The same smile that said, 'what, me, honest Harry Saxon? Wipe out a tenth of the population and enslave the rest? Don't be so silly, the thought never even crossed my mind.'  
And then he winks, patting the parcel under his arm. "It's all right - I've brought my own. Wouldn't want you going short on my account. Got to keep your strength up - haven't we, Tish. _Tish?_ Come along Tish, chop-chop, don't keep the Captain waiting."  
She's struggling to carry something under her arm as well as hold the tray flat. Something made of chromed pipes and black plastic... It's an ominous moment before he realises what it is: he's brought his own chair too - which is useful, because for some reason the management have neglected to provide one.  
There's a squeak as he sits, and he frowns vaguely, intent on getting the perfect angle of thigh to backside to backrest before carefully unwrapping the layers of newsprint, thick, off-white paper and shiny greaseproof, finally nodding the hovering Tish back over, his reproachful glance bringing her scurrying faster, dull clinks on the tray like a badly-tuned wind chime.  
"So then, Captain. How've you been? Done anything interesting lately?"  
He's a good shape for a slouch; long legs spread comfortably wide, licking his lips and gesturing with a greasy finger as he chews, shakes on more salt, more vinegar -  
"Although - and don't take this the wrong way, but I've got to say, since our last date I've been thinking about you quite a lot."  
Funny, really, he'd been looking forward to the new PM's first briefing - because it had to be him, there was never any doubt - finally getting to see the man in the flesh. He'd actually been excited about the thought of meeting him. Which only goes to prove that the universe is cracked, because here he is and the only bit of him he'd like to get his hands on now is his neck.  
Although he'll make sure he doesn't spill his dinner. That would be a waste.  
There's a cough near his left elbow. It's quiet, trying to be unobtrusive and attract his attention at the same time, and he finally meets Saxon... the Master's eyes over another long, thick, golden, glistening chip before turning his head to where _she's_ waiting, flicking anxious glances at the seated man and his oh-so benevolent smile.  
 _It's a game_ , he wants to tell her, just to reassure her so she'll smile at him again. She's got a gorgeous smile. Once they get out of this he'll have to see about giving her a reason to use it. _Just a stupid fucking game of one-upmanship. He'll eat, I'll rumble, he'll chuckle, I'll snarl. He'll get bored, I'll get shot. Or stabbed. Or - something. Then give it ten minutes - or tomorrow, or the next day - and then we start over._  
"What've I got today then, Tish?"  
Her eyes widen and she presents the spoon, already loaded with something yellowish and soft-looking, a faint tang to the scent - or is that just vinegar? It's hard to tell over the smell of _chips -_  
The worst thing, really, is that it was a good film - all the squashed dogs and the snotty wife and daughter, Kevin Kline's screwball insane-brother act, the Ministry of Funny Walks' legs. And it's pissing him off, really, _really_ getting to him now, because he knows about Jamie Lee Curtis and the goldfish - who doesn't - but he can't for the life of him remember what Michael Palin's character was called. He's seen it so many times, watched reruns on Film Four, even stood on one leg and recited Russian verbs for Kathy once, just to see her laughing (although that might have been the sock suspenders - she should know better than to tease him about the accent), but can he name the man with the chips up his nose? Can he _fuck._  
"Jack? Something wrong? Not come at a bad time, have I? You hadn't made plans?"  
"Nothing I can't break."  
No point in giving him the silent treatment if there's no punch line. It was going to be a great fucking come-back too. Although if this is going to become a habit, maybe the guard's seen it...  
"That's good." The chair legs scrape over the metal grid (there go his numbers, he'll have to start again now) and the suited man settles himself comfortably a little closer, blowing on his chips, sending the scent wafting again. "Wouldn't want to push in somewhere I'm not wanted. You not eating? You are hungry, aren't you Jack? Tish -"  
He gestures with a chip and frowns; so concerned for his wellbeing Jack could almost puke. But why bother? There's the spoon again and it looks like someone already did it for him. That's hardly fair on her, though - right there, close enough that he can smell the soap and cotton, sweat and chip-fat of her: Tish Jones - former PR to the PM; nursemaid to the freak. Bit of a comedown for her, but he's not complaining; she's careful where she points the hose, not to mention making up for the lack of a view out of the window - or a window - and no-one could accuse him of being ungrateful for small mercies.  
A dull clink and then the spoon comes again, cold against his lips. It tastes of metal with a hint of Fairy Liquid, but mainly of swede - boiled plain and mashed _no salt, no pepper, no butter_ wet.  
He chews, just for the hell of it. Swallows. Waits.  
"That's it, eat up. Is it good today? Smells _yummy._ "  
One chip at a time. There's a fork on the tray but the Time Lord's slumming it; eating with his fingers. Sucking up to the knuckle and licking his lips, encouraging the speed of Tish's spooning with quirks and twitches of the brow as he picks carefully through the pile of fat, beautiful golden-brown chips.  
And he's got swede. He used to like swede. Hot. With salt and pepper and a bit of butter (just a bit; black-market nylons were one thing, but she wouldn't take extra food, said it was cheating the troops). Gravy in a teacup and ITMA on the radio. Next day she'd fry up what was left with an onion, chop up a couple of mushrooms, splash of Lee and Perrins, bit more salt. A dollop of HP sauce on the side and a slice of bread and dripping. Hot plate, hot food - he'd make her put her feet up while he did the washing up. And then a pot of tea and a share of the paper. Easy to grow, swede, added a bit of variety to the bubble and squeak, always made the meat ration go that bit further. It was a good filler, but she liked to plant flavours - radishes and chicory, fennel, French and Spanish onions amongst the spreading leaves, chard... Estelle might have had her head in the clouds, but her fingers were always green - she could grow anything: Strawberries, peas, potatoes...  
At least she didn't live to see this.  
A gulp and as he swallows the spoon comes again, cold and wet. Nothing to chew, baby-food mush. Bland. He opens, swallows again, again, trying not to gag. He's not looking at her or him - just the spoon. The smell and the spoon, the tight, loveless clinch of manacles all that's keeping him back -  
"Don't you fancy yours? You're not on a diet are you?" The sitting man shakes his head sadly, and a rejected chip drops to the floor as he picks at his fish. "You don't really need to. Maybe just a bit of work to tighten up the love handles... although my Lucy, she always says she likes something to hold onto. _You_ don't think Jack needs to diet, do you, Tish?" He starts to turn, then stops and slaps his head with the flat of his hand. " _Jack!_ You keep chattering away like that - I almost forgot. I brought you a treat."  
 _Finally._ No prizes for guessing what, oh no - the fun's in the how. And while coming back hurts; like nail-guns and razor blades, glass in the porridge (and that was just plain sadistic - there was honey in that), like breaking; remaking - there's always, _always_ a perfect result. Optimum, one almost might say, if one was inclined - which one isn't, because one can smell chips and the fucking cold mashed fucking swede is making one feel sick.  
The spoon comes again, barely trembling on his lip, and she makes the quietest noise, half a breath under the scrape and rattle of metal on mess-tin. Yeah, well. Treats are good, but she's been here before: held the spoon, hosed the walls - before the Master got bored with a quick evisceration as a way to fill a quiet afternoon, anyway.  
He doesn't look at her, just opens his mouth for the spoon, sucks it in, swallows (mashed carefully smooth: no lumps, no glitter) opens again, watches the thin, blond man in the expensive suit, quick fingers poking, selecting, discarding. He'll come back whole (and what _about_ his mind? He's just as sane as the next immortal. Saner, if he's counting the Time Lord currently picking the batter off his cod and dropping it through the grid-work), but if he's quiet, if he eats, then she might just get to leave first. Maybe. This time.  
And then the chair scrapes back and she flinches, slopping swede on the tray in her haste to empty the tin.  
 _"Tish."_ A reproachful tut, and the blond head shakes again as he pushes to his feet.  
Show-time already? Damn, and just when he was starting to enjoy his lunch too -  
"So what did you get me? Widescreen TV? Set of bolt-croppers? No, don't tell me, I know - _dessert_. Spotted dick and custard. My favourite - how did you guess? Sticky toffee pudding would've been good too, but I mustn't be greedy. Got to think about those love-handles. Maybe next time, eh? Just so long as there's cream."  
"And there's a surprise. Do you never get tired of being so predictable, Jack? Never stop with the jokes? Is that all this is to you, all _I_ am? A great big joke?"  
He's closer. And there's not much movement in the chains but still, so close - he's still got legs, just another _don't look away_ step, then if he could _don't blink_ just kick - but he's _don't blink_ so disappointed, deep, brown eyes so serious, so sad _sorry now?_ His Master's _disappointed_ his Master's _upset_ been so kind _so cruel_ and see how he's hiding his pain and _he's_ done that to him, making jokes _ungrateful_ when he's been thoughtful enough to bring him a treat and _he doesn't deserve one_ he should apologise, try and turn the sad smile into approval, because he brings him _swede --_  
The yellow mush splatters, patterning dark silk and expensive white linen, and a dark-clad figure tenses in either corner of his blearily clearing vision; a spoon and a rifle both aiming his way, both waiting for orders as the manicured fingertip excavates the hollow of an eye, flicking a blob from a pearly-white button... Then a hearty hand slaps him on the shoulder, a delighted grin splitting the bastard (bastard telepathic Time Lord _bastard_ ) face wide, as slender, chip-scented fingers chuck him fondly under his dripping chin.  
"Oh you just brighten up my day, Jack. You're so much _fun!"_  
"You think I'm joking?" There's a lump of swede on his lip. He huffs it off with a brief pang of loss, tries to breathe without inhaling. "Seriously, I don't really care if it's custard or cream, although if there's something with chocolate you'd be doing me a real favour here. I've had a craving for _days_ \- I think it might be my time of the month."  
"Really? That's a pity. If you're not feeling up to it perhaps I'd better let Tish have your treat instead. What do you think? Would she like what I've got for you?"  
"What? And miss out? I mean, I'm sorry and all that, Tish, but you know how it is - I don't get out so much these days. What have you got for me this time? Something new?"  
"Oh, I'd be amazed if you hadn't had this before." A brief, dismissive gesture and the guard's rapid stride fades along the corridor. "But the classics are always popular. _No_ , Tish." The spoon's approaching, but he stops it with a frown. "Wait until the Captain's got his treat. There's a good girl. You wouldn't want to spoil his appetite, would you? Such a nice girl - not so bright though. Not like her sister, but you can't have everything, can you. Ah, _there_ you are!"  
The guard's brought a friend. It's certainly not what he was expecting - whatever that was - but there's no way this can be good. The principle of never objecting to a little friendly restraint with a shapely brunette (or blonde, or redhead - or not) kneeling at his feet might have served him well for the last century or so, but in the circumstances...  
"Jack? This is Tonya. Tonya's got - no, Tonya _is_ your treat. Aren't you going to say hello?"  
"You not even got the balls to do it yourself? Damn, and there I was thinking you were the better class of mad dictator."  
"Do it _myself?_ Do... Oh, Jack, love. _Jackie,_ dear, flexible Captain Jack - you're really not my type. Whereas _Tonya_ here..."  
A touch to her shoulder and she leans obediently, reaching up under the loose hang of his shirt, and then a nod and the spoon comes again. He swallows. Flexes his shoulders against the cold pull of steel. There are too many blood vessels down there, too many pressure points, blood, vital organs and - _fuck_... It might not be the purest tenor, but it's all his and it's right where he likes it.  
He can't see anything under her dress though - not even when she leans further; not even underwear - just black silk and pale skin. Not much room there for a weapon (as if that ever stopped him), but there are plenty of things she _could_ have under there. So, what's it to be? Wire? A razor blade? Needles? Maybe it's taped to her thigh - the inside, obviously, so as not to ruin that undisturbed cling of raw silk...  
He's only looking. He's chained up, for god's sake; of _course_ he's only looking. And besides, he needs to know what to expect. He needs to see what she's got under that dress -  
That twitch - the one that's not happening; that he can't _see_ happening when her grip shifts, tugging gritty cloth tight as she's twisting the button loose - it's not happening. Not when she scrapes her hair back from her face, wet tongue tracing red lips, dark silk shifting up and then back. There's nothing happening because he's just watching the tide drawing darkening shadows tight on the pale surface beneath. Pebbles, that's it - just pebbles caught on the shore, scoring tracks through the tide's wake - and nothing happening at all, really, nothing at all when the burr of the zip lifts the hairs on his neck. Just the hairs, nothing else. On his _neck_.  
More swede. The spoon's shaking, cold on his lips. He has to chew. Has to find some saliva and _chew_ \- swallow.  
He's winning. That's all that's important; he's the one chained up and he's still beating the bastard. It's just pain. That's all it is. That's all it's going to be in the end. All it ever is. It means nothing. It'll pass. Just pain - like a finger, a hand, an eye. Been there, done that, spat out the teeth. Just pain. Nothing new.  
And it's a perfectly normal reaction to stress. To proximity, anticipation. To standing chained up with his trousers round his ankles, prick-to-face with red lips and a wet tongue -  
 _And what size of death would monsieur like today? Le moyenne? Something larger?  
Oh, I'll start with the petite and work up, thanks. It's been a while. Does it still come with cinnamon and sprinkles?_  
No. He's _winning_. This is a treat, remember? Look at her; she's gorgeous, it's going to be _fun_. She's going to open her mouth - just like that, nice and wide. He's just got to take a good look and think how good those lips will feel; how good they'll look; how she'll use her tongue. How hot and how wet and how _tight..._ That's it. Just think about it - the more blood there is, the faster it'll be.  
Besides, if the way the bastard's eyebrows are going up is anything to go by, then he's got him beaten without even trying. He can be magnanimous though. And maybe just a _little_ smug wouldn't go amiss, especially if he's aiming for quick this time -  
"You know, if you'd told me I was going to be the hors d'oeuvre then I would've changed for dinner."  
"That's all right, Tonya won't mind if we don't stand on ceremony." He pats her vaguely, wiping greasy fingers on her back before picking another chip from the paper. "Get on with it - look, the Captain's getting impatient."  
Her hands are smooth on his sticky skin, soft fingertips drawing sensation from _ohfuck_ to _yes_. He sucks hard at the swede sitting cold on his tongue, sucks saliva from a dry tongue and swallows. Breathes and swallows. All that blood. There's going to be so much blood... Just breathe - swallow and _breathe_ -  
"I hope you gave her a knife - wouldn't want her blunting her teeth. I'm getting on a bit y'know, bound to be a little stringy."  
"Teeth? A _knife?_ I'd got you down as kinky, but on a first date? If that's what you like, I just thought you'd prefer tongue, lips - maybe even a little throat?" Another nudge jolts her, the smell of hot chips mixing with sweat and aftershave, sour skin and Chanel No. 5. And he'd laugh; he would - because that's funny, right? But he's not sure he can, even though he can't look away, can't _look_ (not teeth, god no, _please_ not with her teeth) but he has to know _when_ -  
Red lips parting, the perfect nose wrinkles as a wetdry tongue samples his flesh, lapping softly then harder, a shudder screwed down tight behind dully pained eyes (it's not his. Not his stink, sticky-sweat- _sour_ , not his - can't be his). And then she leans forward, opening wider, hot and wet tight, sucking him in while the audience applauds over his chip supper.  
" _That's_ right. Good girl - just like you showed me this morning."  
A brief flourish of chrome and a hitch of the Prime-ministerial trouser-legs and he's straddling the chair. Still picking chips from crumpled paper, head tilted; watching - appraising (what is he - an installation? A Hirst? Gilbert and George?) - chewing slowly, serious smile twisting into approval as the smooth, dark head dips (An Emin. No - _Koons_ ), dips and _sucks._  
All the way down and back up - no teeth, just tongue, and lips sinking lower, sucking deeper - that's good, _fuck_ that's good. It's too good - he's smiling. Not good. Chewing and smiling and it's just _good_ but it can't be good because he's watching and smiling and - _fuck_ \- why? Distraction? Diversion? What's...  
 _No._ That's not _fair_ -  
"You think that's my price? You think I've got one? Tonya? _Tonya_ \- you don't have to do this. _Don't..._ "  
Unbidden, she follows his hips, crawling forward over the grid, jaw tensing to scrape a shock of pained pleasure through freshly-peeled flesh. And then her face tightens again, eyes closing as a long-nailed grip pins him, moving him, leaning back forward into the rhythmic demand - he can't pull away and the chains won't break and he can't move - because if he moves she might stop, might not suck, might not _finish_.  
"Oh, but she does though, don't you Tonya, sweetheart. You do whatever your Master says. Come on, Jack, don't drift off. Watch her, you know you want to. How long is it, five months? You must be _aching_ for this, and she's good, isn't she. She's got this fantastic thing she can do with her tongue. Show the Captain what you can do, Tonya, that thing, you know. _No_ , wait - hang on a minute..."  
He's not drifting, he's drowning: not aching - it _burns_ ; swallowed deeper in static, just motion and scent, silk-shift rasping with each lean forward-back, red lips, hot and sweet and deep and _good_ \- then the _crack_ splits his senses wide, shatters his fugue, blinking startled to stare as the benign bastard Time Lord's sad look-at-me face turns perplexed. He claps again, frowning.  
" _Tish?_ Hel-lo? Tish? What's the matter - are you taking notes? Come on, I don't pay you to stand around watching while the Captain enjoys himself, do I? _Feed_ the man, that's a good girl. Open up, Jack, got to keep your strength up. That's better. Everything alright there, Tonya? _That's_ it..."  
So sincere, so fucking sincere, so - _fuck._ Tongue _and_ teeth. Wet, drool-sloppy lips sealing tight, pulling hard _sucking_ through a lipstick-sticky glide. Red lips and dead eyes, long hair falling forward as the spoon hits his lips again. Cold, sloppy swede and a hot, tight mouth, swallowed and swallowing - going nowhere, backwards and forwards and tighter and sweeter and deeper and swede -  
 _Swede_. Swallow, breathe - get a grip. He's got to focus, got to ask - just say it.  
"Why?"  
"Why what? Something wrong? Tonya, you're slipping; the Captain's not happy. Why don't you show him how lovely that throat of yours is."  
"Why this?" He's having his prick sucked. What does he expect - eloquence? "What the..." Breathe - just breathe. One of them has to. "What the fuck do you _want?_ "  
The lights are flashing, blinking in time with the pulse in his ears, numbed hands thrumming cold to the beat in his balls as chair legs scrape, metal on metal; a flash of chrome folding to crash behind the bland blond smiling bastard. Saying something - speaking, but his blood's singing: heart beating too fast to suck breath over mouthfuls of swede as the blond head shakes; soulful and sad-faced in the lowering light, chewing syllables into his chips. Smiling.  
Smiling as he's crumpling paper. Smiling - a well-dressed stripe of smiling blond darkness. And then there are three: concerted in motion - one smiling, one spooning, one grasping a gun (does it matter? He's going to _come_ \- if he doesn't pass out first), long nails pinning him tight, holding him forward to swallow him whole, sucking back forwards deeper, a gasped rasping breath cooling his flesh only to suck down hot tighter again, and again -  
"...sure you really don't want your treat? Well that's a shame, but it's your choice..."  
The heat shifts and he follows. Shaking legs following dark strands untangling from caked-red sticky depth-rings. Staggering forward until cramped shoulders scream over the ache of drumming blood - forward, following red lips and black silk, scored-red knees standing, moving away -  
" _Up_ you come then, there's a good girl. Oh now really, _look_ at the state of that."  
The muffled _crack_ echoes over blood and static: skin on skin, hard and sharp and again - a choked squeal scraping the edges of his light-headed disappointment as aching, shaking legs stagger, barely holding his unbalanced weight.  
Another slap, another cry; dulled by sensation, demanding he move - he's got to stop thinking about his prick and _move_ \- but there's the spoon and that smell... Sweat, soap and chip-fat: _Tish_ ; too close and too far. He's got to move, say something - kill the bastard - but the ache's so close to good and the spoon in his mouth is hard and rounded, the bowl fits his tongue and he's sucking it, biting the shaft - holding on, lick bite sucking, desperate hips shuddering through uncaring air.  
Another _crack_ : wet sounding, brittle and wrong, filling the pained, pounding silence. Dark-blurred motion folds past half-closed eyes, and behind the trembling shimmer of silk the Master shrugs. "Just can't get the staff these days, you know how it is. Tish? I'll do this, you sort the Captain out, there's a love." A vague wave - too preoccupied by the tangle of dark hair wrapped tight round one manicured hand, the weight of a shaking body pulling him off balance as he beckons the guard. "Get rid of this. I don't want to see it again. _So_..."  
Jack watches the suited man pass his burden over, spine creaking as he shifts, shuffling back, shuffling upright, pulling hard on the dregs of adrenaline but nothing gives, not the bolts or the chains, not the hungry blood - only his knees. Bare knees, getting cold now, cloth tangling his feet.  
Tish hasn't moved. She has to _move_.  
And then she's closer, the spoon hanging still in mid-air, stepping close to let the guard pass behind her; silk fluttering at his shoulder, ten pale, red-tipped tassels trailing at his hip. Closer still: deep brown eyes, soft smooth lips...  
He could lean, touch her cheek with his cheek, lean in close to her ear - ask her nicely; say _please?_ But she's so close and the _scent_ of her - over blood, over chip-fat and vinegary paper. Close enough that if the bolts would just give he could -  
What? What would he do? Touch her? Protect her? Shove her down on her knees and slam his prick down her throat?  
She looks down. He just looks at her.  
Her hair fits her so neatly, dragged back tight to her scalp, shiny-smooth, tiny scut of a tail, soft wisps fogging at temples and brow.  
He just looks - _focus_ \- at Tish, not the genial bastard smiling behind her. Focus on the ache. It's just another service - like the spoon and the bucket and hose, just another need, no more - just maintenance. Focus on the ache and don't breathe her in (fear sweat _chips_ ), just a touch, that's all (is it in the job description? Bucket, hose and hand-job) just a tight grip and a flick of the wrist...  
Brown eyes drowning she raises her chin. Meets his eyes and then turns. Puts the spoon on the tray and turns back, lips drawn tight. Looks down and reaches out -  
And now the bastard moves. Now the smile slips too - dropping somewhere behind the flapping hands, amongst those fine, outraged sensibilities. "Good grief, girl, _no_ nono, just cover him up. The Captain said no, we've got to respect his wishes. Right Jack? And besides, we can't have you scaring the neighbours now, can we. I'd do it, but I just ate and I don't want to get chip-fat on your trousers."  
Her hands are shaking, but it isn't enough. Not enough friction in the greasy slide of filthy cloth either. He can't look - at her, or down - eyes cringing closed, pain and copper seasoning the bland remains of unswallowed swede as she tugs the waist higher. Trying not to lean into the contact as the dull hum of the zip shocks a jolt through taut flesh, nerves twitching and drumming while the benevolent smirk peers approvingly over her shoulder.  
" _That's_ more like it. So, are we still on for Thursday? Same time, if that's all right with you. I'd ask you over but I know you hate to travel. Anyway - lots to do, can't stand around all day gossiping. Come on, Tish - the Captain would like some peace and quiet, I expect. We don't want him getting indigestion, now do we."  
He stands straight - as straight as he can - sucking breath defiantly as he watches them leave, and thinks really, _really_ hard about swede.


	2. Cold, mashed swede

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _He should've broken his neck when he had the chance. He's_ never _been ashamed of his body: what it needs, what it wants, what it does - but he's going to have a regeneration out of the bastard sadistic Time Lord for every single blank-faced woman with a gridwork cut into her knees._

It's been three days.  
His Joneses (and that's another thought he's not thinking) bring water, hold the bucket, wield the hose, but they don't speak. They don't bring him anything to eat either. Two bowls of mashed swede in a week and a half just aren't enough for a growing boy. If the bastard's going to starve him can't he do it properly? Even just cut his throat; that'd work - for a while.  
But it's been three days and now it's Thursday. And not only is it Thursday, it's Thursday _lunchtime._ And sure, Time's fucked, but so's he - and he's still hungry.  
Three whole days - seventy-two hours (what a conveniently placed clock that is. Rule one of the Gallifreyan convention on the rights of the human: make sure the insignificant little shits know how well and truly fucked they are before, during and after you torture them. The guy was right, he's a genius) - and all he's done in the last three days is make two decisions. So sue him, they're good ones. Ones, in fact, that he intends to remember. Number one: he's not just not leaving a tip, he's asking for his money back. And number two: he's sticking with M&S. Millets' socks might last longer, but he can't buy sandwiches at the same time in there. Or cheesecake. Or profiteroles. Or chocolate... Although, actually, a chunk of Kendal mint cake might just hit the spot about now, even without chocolate. Although, _actually,_ given his current options he might just eat the socks. Millets' generally look wholemeal anyway, and he could do with something to chew.  
He did say Thursday. Didn't he? He's sure he said Thursday - yeah, sure he was a bit preoccupied at the time, but he was talking about food - he can't have got that wrong. _'Same time Thursday,'_ that's what he said. Well it's Thursday, and it's lunchtime and -  
 _Fuck._  
He knows that stride on the grating. The nervous line of the guard's back. The scuffle and click struggling to keep up, bottles rattling on the tray as she's juggling that damned chair...  
Did he plan this too? Floors tuned to perfect TARDIS-resonance to torment him all the more? _(No, it has to be an A flat, trust me - it's of vital importance for national security.')_ Was he thinking of him - trying to make his dreams sound like somewhere that isn't home, hasn't been home - never will be now because he's wrong and he knows it -  
Shut up. Just shut up. Don't let him see. There's nothing to see. It doesn't matter. Nothing matters. Where was he again? _Not a one, not a three, and it can't be a six because -_  
" _Jack!_ There you are."  
No time-wasting today. No sense of the dramatic, no making him wonder - he's brought his treat in with him. And she's hot, but she's not sticky toffee pudding. In fact he's not even putting her in the same thought as sticky toffee pudding, because sticky toffee pudding (just stop it. It's not happening) never looked so fucking terrified. If that bastard makes a crack about cream he'll -  
"I want you to meet someone special. This is Michelle, come on, Jack - say hello to Michelle. Isn't she gorgeous?'  
"What happened to your friend Tonya?"  
"Tonya?"  
The blank look's a masterpiece. He'd applaud if he had hands free. Once he'd broken his neck, anyway.  
"Yeah, you remember, brunette, black dress to match her eyes?"  
"Oh, _Jack..._ "  
Oh that poor, sad reproachful face. Has he spoiled his wuvvly ickle game? Good.  
"Tonya just wasn't up to the standards I expect from my employees. Not like Michelle here. Or Tish - Tish does what I tell her to, don't you Tish. She's a good girl. And Michelle's going to be good too. Right love? Go on - go and make the Captain happy, there's a sweetheart."  
She doesn't look at him - not at _him_ \- just staring, jaw clenched, as she kneels to a soundtrack of paper and salt. A wet splat of vinegar and enthusiastic mastication drowning the click of scarlet nails on his button and zip. She's slender, a gym-body in turquoise silk, short, dark hair - pretty too, or would be - was - before someone smeared fear all over her face. There are livid marks on her cheekbones and jaw. He wouldn't give odds on whose those prints are; the bastard just has to be in charge, doesn't he.  
Okay, he can do this. It's fine - as fine as this gets, anyway. At least he knows where he stands and sure, she doesn't want to be here any more than he does - but what's he supposed to do; say no? Because that went really well last time, didn't it...  
A quiet scrape of metal on metal and there's a spoon of cold swede under his nose (Hi Tish - how've you been? And the family? Having a good week?). No salt - nothing new there - and the bastard's watching him, watching them (watching us, watching you... Christ, what he wouldn't give to see Jeremy Beadle about now), watching Tish with her spoon and Michelle with her lips and him with his trousers round his ankles -  
Oh, the choices, where does he begin? Let her do all the work and go along for the ride? Or maybe he'll really go to town and fuck her mouth. Yeah, that's it - because he's really loving the way those over-painted lips are trembling around that reluctant-looking pink thing she's trying to persuade to upright with a desperate hand-job.  
It's strange really, how seeing someone he's never met before beaten bloody can put the kibosh on his libido.  
"Something wrong, Jack?"  
"Me?" he says, "what makes you think that?"  
Because if he was telepathic (like someone not a million miles away) then he could tell her _sorry, I never wanted this, but maybe we can work together. So if you move that hand down a bit - that's it - and then suck --_  
But maybe he is and he just didn't know it; because that's the sweet spot on his thigh that she's scraping at with one of those goddamn long nails, and the flat trail of a vein that's she's tracing with her tongue, making him pant into his swede, and the slow slide of teeth and tongue and lips, the firm grip peeling him bare to the hot, wet-dry slide of her mouth - that's just where he'd have wanted her tongue (if he'd wanted it, which he doesn't), just where he'd have wanted it if he - doesn't _want_ it - if he wanted to fill her mouth, if he wanted (harder) if he wanted her to (that's it, now _suck_ ) suck him dry -  
"Oh now..." Tutting softly, the seated man gestures helplessly with a chip. "I almost forgot to tell you. I'm thinking of turning the power back on. It's all for you. I thought I might put out a Christmas DVD." And then he's smirking - that new face so seriously needs smashing off into the grating... "If you're good I might even pay you royalties - you are my star after all. I thought I'd call it _'The Adventures of Captain Jack'_. What do you think?"  
"Yeah?" Think? Does he have to? He's trying to concentrate on coming here. "That's nice."  
"That's what I thought." Another chip vanishes into a sudden frown and he pokes the kneeling woman with his toe. "Harder," he says, "Come on - put your back into it." And then he smiles, "and maybe a sub-title too? I like _'A Cautionary Tale'_. You don't mind, do you? It's not for me, you understand - I've got to think about my public."  
"Uh huh?"  
Not long. If he'd just shut up and let him concentrate - let her - then if this is what he wants then he can have it. Really, nearly, so nearly, so, _so_ -  
"Oh _damn_. Will you look at the time?"  
 _What?_ No - where's she going? No, _no_ -  
"Sorry, Captain, got to go. And as for you, Michelle, letting the Captain down like that after all the nice things I told him about you..."  
He can smell blood when they leave. _Taste_ it.  
Joanne doesn't do any better, three days later. Or Colette, three days after that. Or Sarah, or Tina...  
They just keep on coming, and he's trying, he really is - trying not to think about them like so much dead meat, because, whatever _he_ says, he's as human as they are. Although he doesn't try and stop them any more, or refuse to eat (it's food; he's _starving_ ), or encourage them, or make suggestions, or complain or say _anything_ because there's only one winner here and it's never going to be him. That isn't how this works.  
They just keep on coming, but they never come back. Just coming and coming, one after the other. Every three days a new face, a new body in a new dress - or out of it - a new woman-with-chips every seventy-two hours, until the only way he can stand the silence between screams is to blank out their names and not look at their faces, hoping that if he doesn't think - doesn't act and doesn't think - then His Master's (bastard fucking _bastard_ ) Voice will get bored and stop. If he doesn't act and doesn't think and doesn't do anything but stand and swallow and wait and react... but they just keep on coming and coming.  
And he doesn't.  
And they never come back. Tish never sees any of them again, or at least she won't answer when he asks. She doesn't want to talk about it, he tells himself - or she doesn't want to tell him what she knows because she knows it's not his fault. She even finds a smile for him some days. He likes that. He'd tell her how much it suits her if he wasn't afraid someone might overhear. He still likes it though. It helps. She's got the weight of the world on her shoulders and she still finds a smile for him. She doesn't blame him. It _helps_.  
But they never come back. And there are transports every day, planes to the surface, new faces coming as the old disappear.  
And chips. And hunger.  
"Charmaine, she's a beauty, not even a peek? Very good with her hands. Not that that's going to bother you…"  
They never come back.  
And next to the hunger it's barely an ache; blue balls never killed him before - not like starvation, anyway - and besides, he might not sleep but he still dreams.  
"Jack? Oh Cap-tain, I've got someone here you're just going to _love..._ "  
It's hard not to dream when he keeps passing out. Dreaming of chips and having hands free to eat them with. Dreaming of waking without the constant, grinding empty ache; reset and refreshed. Dreaming in the soft place where the air isn't before the pain brings him back: shoulders screaming, ribs crushing his lungs - before the pain brings him back to a world that never really went away, coughing blood as his legs shake. And hungry, so very, very hungry.  
They never, _ever_ come back.  
Three more days and another blonde. Another three days and a redhead (have they run out of brunettes?), cod and chips for one and another bowl of swede. Tish nudges the stool closer, covering the scrape with a rattle of tin and spoon, then leans on it while she zips him efficiently, a final lean wedging its feet into the grid at his feet.  
She doesn't meet his eyes. They leave him alone, not even a guard for company. Does he smell that bad?  
Don't answer. He's not thinking about that. And the reason he's not thinking about that is that he's thinking about Tish. Clever, kind Tish who'd take the weight of the world off his shoulders - or at least twelve stone of it.  
He never thought he'd be so grateful to have something to lean on, but it's just what he needs to hold him up for a few hours. Just enough to save him from choosing between dislocated shoulders and suffocation (a no-brainer at first sight, but invariably interrupted with a rifle butt to the jaw. And of course he's tried being quiet, but drowning in saliva is a _bastard_ for noise), which means he can _sleep_. Sleep and dream about big brown compassionate eyes and shaking hands turned steady. Dreams that wake him with a wet stomach and numb feet, his shins dented, hips groaning from taking the strain. It helps though; the ache's fading, but he's going to need cutting out of these trousers, if they don't sprout life and wander off of their own accord.  
Later, when Daddy Jones brings the bucket, he's carrying a toolbox as well. He doesn't laugh at the rattled chains - nor, for that matter, does he undo the manacles. He just moves the stool out of reach and screws it to the floor. The next day Mummy Jones looks at him. It's somewhere near his left knee, but it's a start. She has three hairs out of place. He doesn't mention it, she probably wouldn't laugh either.  
Three days. It's been three days since he ate. Lunch, when it eventually arrives (maybe if he rang Trading Standards? There has to be something in those statutory rights that nothing ever affects he can sue over), comes with a brunette. They're obviously not as scarce as he thought, but while the garnish has changed the main course is the same.  
He doesn't care, after another three days of trying not to chew _all_ the skin off his lips even the spoon's a relief; hard and rounded, something to suck at, something to _feel_... All he wanted was food before, now he'd kill for sensation. Something that isn't icy water, hot piss or scalding steam, sensation that comes with hands attached, not just a mouth, a body - bodies...  
Okay, fine, he can admit it: his name might as well be Jack Harkness, and he just wants to _fuck._ To feel skin under his hands, moving and touching, connecting and she -  
(he didn't do this; he's just like them: only human, no way out - a hair trigger)  
and she -  
(Annabel? Christine? Sophia?)  
and she -  
(Did he empty a finishing school? Or maybe he just invited all his wife's friends for the 'taking over the world' party and never bothered sending them home.)  
She chokes when he comes after a single sloppy suck. He can't look, panting as he's willing the pain away (just one hand, that's all he wanted) and hoping, _hoping_ that maybe this time it's what he wanted to see.  
There's a fistful of brown hair just out of reach when they leave. The guard doesn't touch it and none of his assorted Joneses will even look at it.  
It's still there three days later. The chips smell wonderful but he's really not that hungry. He's been hoping for ground glass with his swede, but all he gets is a nervous Tish and another brunette. He doesn't listen when the Master says her name, just looks at the ceiling (it's the same as the floor. There are bloodstains in the corners), trying to concentrate on the numbers in his grid. Maybe if he tries hard enough he could think up an aneurysm?  
It doesn't work. Of course it doesn't. It still hurts when she sucks him too. Even worse when he drags her away. But that's the point here, isn't it?  
He really doesn't want to know.  
Another three days and there's blood in the bucket. Not too much - not enough (just a few more pints, that's all it would take, not even half a bucketful) - but even Mummy Jones meets his eyes at last and, for once, doesn't look like she hates him for saving her other daughter from this.  
There's blood in the bucket (not enough, not _enough_ ) and he's starving and it _hurts:_ a constant, raw scouring itch that burns into well-programmed life at the scent of fried potatoes, scalding what's left of his stomach with acid and napalm as a terrified blonde chokes and spits blood on the floor.  
She does it again a few moments later, only this time she's spitting teeth with it.  
Three days, and then another three. All the swede he can eat and a concerned looking Tish. No treats - just the Master and the scent of Tish and chips. She's up close and caring. Spoon-feeding him mush and wiping his chin. He's not sure how the blond bastard manages to chew with that grin on, but she's not letting it affect her. Her hands are almost steady - even when she has to angle him down to help him piss.  
It's three more days before there's no more blood than it takes to make her blush - although she's pretty much stopped doing that now too. He's beginning to feel stronger. He can stand on his own and he's hungry again. It's not good. He's been in the UK a _long time_ and this is just a little too Cat-and-Mouse for his liking. Three more days and just as he's hoping the bastard's British history doesn't run to suffragettes: imprisonment and treatment of -  
"Jack? Meet Emmie. I've told her all about you, she's been dying to meet you, haven't you. Come on, Emmie love, smile for the Captain."  
It's not his blood this time, but it may as well be - smeared rusty in the wake of crimson lipstick, the tinny rattle of Tish's spoon-scrape-spoon drowned just as well by blows and choked pleading as the choking-wet nauseous noises she ( _Emmie:_ he'd laugh if it wouldn't make him cry) left trickling down his thighs, oozing stickily through coarse, tangled hair matted with sweat and grit, smearing it flatter against his skin (it _doesn't_ itch. It doesn't itch and he doesn't stink and she didn't just gag on him).  
Job done, the smirking bastard waves the guard away with his groaning burden, and then sniffs. "I hope you enjoyed your dinner," he says, his nose wrinkling over a moue of distaste. "There's a nasty smell in here today - put me right off mine." Another sniff and he pulls a face at Tish before turning back with a shrug, unfolding the parcel from under his arm to hold it out in his hands. "Don't s'pose you fancy this, do you Jack?"  
"No." Not unless it's poisoned. He'll eat it all up if it'll kill him right now. "No, thanks. I already ate."  
He should've broken his neck when he had the chance. He's _never_ been ashamed of his body: what it needs, what it wants, what it does - but he's going to have a regeneration out of the bastard sadistic Time Lord for every single blank-faced woman with a gridwork cut into her knees.  
"You know..." A pat lands on his shoulder, a quiet _'eww,'_ followed by the wipe of the Time-Lordly palm on Tish's back and another smirk. "I think that's why I like you so much, Captain."  
And then they're gone and then it's later, and then here they come again.  
No. Just one set of footsteps. Just one set and that's -  
Tish.  
It's Tish and she's carrying something that clanks as she remonstrates with the not-so-nice man with the big gun. It can't be lunchtime again already. And if it is he doesn't want any. Can't they just leave him alone?  
"The Master said to clean him up," she says. "He says he's making him sick. Do _you_ want to tell him you told me not to?"  
Anonymous guard number two (AKA Bert - it must be Ernie's day off) grunts something vaguely rude and Tish clanks in past him, clanks up close and then clanks again as she sets the bucket down by his feet.  
"I'm sorry." She's so quiet he can hardly hear her. "He says I've got to wash you. I hope you don't mind, but even if you do I've still got to do it. He wants me to clean you properly. All over." And then she glances at the guard, wringing the cloth between red-raw hands. "It's going to take a while."  
Does the man respond? Does he even look round? Jack doesn't know, doesn't care, doesn't even notice because he can't think past the _smell:_ glorious, dark pink and spicy clean. _Soap_. The bucket clanks, sloshes - _steams_ \- a fat snail of foam on the galvanised grey, glistening, dripping on the mesh, dripping down. Hot water - hot _soapy_ water: That's it, he's got to be dead (this can't be Heaven, all the angels are in Hell). She risks a smile and then looks over her shoulder again, slow and casual. The guard's not watching them though, why would he be? The entertainment's over for the day and Tish is no different to the rest: not better, no worse - no less human, no less scared of their monster-Master...  
But if that was torture then this is pure torment. So much compassion in those nervous eyes, and so close that if he leaned - half a step, hardly tugging the chains - he'd be touching her thigh... This is worse than having his prick sucked - at least then there's the chance he might get some relief; can't she just use the fucking hose?  
But she's _gorgeous;_ a spark still lighting her eyes, even where the hope's gone out. Dressed up like a chambermaid by his bastardness King Harry and made to clean toilets and floors and the freak in the brig, and still she's thoughtful, taking her time, giving him the comfort of her touch, of her smile - sad and careful, and so wary, but a smile all the same. A smile just for him as she leans to wring out the cloth, stepping back and then in again - closer - rubbing gently up over his jaw and behind his ears, letting the clean, soapy water sluice through his hair and down the back of his neck. Closer still, eyes intent as she's washing his face, rough cloth on one cheek and her palm on the other, holding him in place (cheeks and jaw and forehead, nose and chin, only closing his eyes when she says to, and then only to keep the soap out).  
Does she honestly think he'd move away if he could? It's been _six months_. Has he ever been that long without being touched before? Not touched by someone who wanted to. By someone who wasn't terrified into it, so scared that she'd get on her knees and open her lips to try and save her skin. Tonya, Michelle, Joanne, Colette, Sarah, Tina, Lianne, Charmaine, Abigail, Serena, Annabel and... another three. More than three? Three at least, and they had names. He can't remember their _names_...  
The warmth shifts and he drags his focus back just as she's moving away, looking back over her shoulder. Does he look as desperate as he feels? He must do, because she's smiling again, shaking her head with a smile as she does what she moved for in the first place and pulls his T shirt up, rolling it up and sliding her hand underneath, up and onto his shoulder, holding him steady with one hand as she scrubs with the other.  
She's close enough that the soap's getting on her uniform: greyish, scummy suds flecking her apron. It is a truly stupid outfit, made to make her look like a joke - but he doesn't think she looks funny. Straight-backed, looking him in the eye as she scrubs off half a year's worth of neglect and worse. She's not a joke, she's gorgeous. So thoughtful and so close: touching him, washing him - smiling for him.  
He has to close his eyes. It's comfort, not an invitation, and all the harder to bear for that. It feels... better. It does. It's so good just to be touched, to be cared about... he can't keep his eyes shut, no matter what she sees, because with his eyes shut he can only hear and smell - and she smells so good...  
Chest, stomach and sides, and then he's suddenly bereft as she circles to wash his back, scrubbing what he figures is rust off his spine with a noise like a frown (she didn't miss much, it wasn't one of his better weeks). Scrubbing and moving, side to front and the other side, scratching with a half-amused smile as he bites back a groan. She's intent, washing methodically, stooping to rinse and wring, trying to get the cloth up under the sleeves of his T shirt and shirt and he can't do anything but watch her, leaning closer when she leans, moving with her and pulling against the chains until her hip is touching his thigh, turning against her as she turns, following the back-forward-side-to-side motion of washcloth and breath on his skin and watching her eyes as she looks at him, watching her lips move:  
"I'm sorry."  
He frowns at the near-silent apology, glancing at the guard's back before shaping a _'why?'_ with a shrug.  
She looks down. Nods down, mouthing _'all over,'_ then adds another _'sorry'._ He shrugs - she surely can't think he's going to object - and she leans closer to whisper; "I've got to, I'm sorry. I'll be quick, I promise, but I've got to wash you, down there."  
He's pretty sure that there's a succinct and appropriate phrase to answer that. Fuck knows what it is though, so he settles for a nod. _'Yes, please - but take your time,'_ might not be exactly what she's looking for here. "Tish -"  
"It's all right," she murmurs, "I'll be quick, but just... _shhh,_ " and then louder, "I've got to wash the rest of you. Just stand still."  
Damp, gritty cloth loosens, tugged free, rough fingers scraping his stomach. Looser still and then a splash and a slosh and warm, wet _wonderful_ water is trickling, cooling, soothing him even as he's wincing - the pain's bad enough but the smell....  
Another rag; swished wet, wrung dry and then added to the pile of used cloth, dripping and stinking through the mesh. Another slosh and splash in the bucket, scent of soap, more warm water. Another cloth moving lower, another glance over her shoulder, another tug on the chains until they pull at his arms, another slow movement; heated flesh seeking friction on calico that's cool and smooth on his stomach and balls...  
 _Fuck._ Shit. Not now. Comfort, remember, not interest - not _now_ -  
He leans back as far as he can, closes his eyes - turns his face away.  
"Sorry."  
That's as good as it gets. He can't look at her, does she understand? If she touches him any more he's just going to plead.  
Another touch; her hand on his cheek, a clammy palm turning him back as a slosh almost drowns her quiet, " _Jack_. Jack, _look at me._ "  
Her other hand hasn't moved. The cloth's cooling on his thigh - if she's going to wash him then she has to move - only if she moves -  
"Can I..." She swallows, and he can hear her throat working. Another look behind and then her lips are touching his ear again. "Can I help?"  
She wants permission - _his_ permission - to touch him?  
" _Please_. God, Tish..."  
" _Shhh._ " A breath and a nod, nothing else, nothing but the cloth moving slowly, scraping layers of grime, sweat and filth, reaming the stink of an unwashed navel, rinsing, returning, wipe-scraping - _stroke,_ rinse, wipe, return - _stroke_ -  
It hurts. It fucking _hurts_. But it's the best pain he can remember, the best he can even imagine: raw, rough skin on his flesh, every pass of the cloth letting air to his skin, cooling drops trickling gently down as a slow, steady rhythm draws his hips swaying after. It's over so fast. Six, maybe seven tight strokes and he's biting his lips shut, just breathing and _breathing._ No more than a faint twitch as the cloth comes back, warm and wet and welcome, and his head drops to her shoulder - just for a moment, no more than a lifetime - no longer than it takes to say what he needs to:  
" _Tish - god, thank you._ "  
"There's no toothpaste," she says, louder, glancing back at the guard as the cloth splashes back into the bucket. "I did ask if I should do that too, but the Master said no. Maybe next time," she says, bending down, and he can see she's sorry to pull the same stinking clothes back up to cover him, but he's not sure he cares.  
Not until she leaves. And it's too late then.  
Three days: Water, bucket and hose. No soap, no swede, no Master - _no Tish_ -  
He hasn't slept - couldn't, even if he could. He doesn't usually see her, but that doesn't mean anything. What if _he_ knows what she did? Did he make a noise and give her away? The guard must have heard him - heard her shushing him, or someone saw her with the bucket and gave her away. The Master didn't really send her to wash him; she did it herself and the guard checked and she couldn't deny it. The Master _did_ send her: he set it up; she's in on the whole thing - pretending to help him, pretending to _care_. He shouldn't have let her. She shouldn't have offered. She wanted to help. It was stupid. He shouldn't have been so weak. She won't offer again. She's got to come back. She won't have the chance. He won't let her. He just wants to _see_ her. _He_ won't let her.  
Where _is_ she?  
There. Footsteps. Lots of footsteps. His first and then -  
Tish. She's there, behind _him_ , carrying the tray and the chair. And behind her...  
"Jack? This is Charlotte..."  
Normal service is resumed.  
Three more days.  
"This is Catherine."  
Three more days.  
"Chantal."  
Three more days.  
"Meet Rebecca."  
It's been three days since he ate. It's _always_ three days since he ate. Is this normal now? He's always hungry, and the thought of eating makes him hard. Trouble is (no, not _trouble_. It's a bloody - ha-ha - relief) only swede _keeps_ him hard; cabbage just doesn't turn him on. (Well _damn_. There goes his stall at the farmers' market.) And Rebecca's trying, she's really trying but what's she supposed to do? Make like a swede?  
He doesn't get hard when she's bleeding either. See? He's still got some things to be grateful for.  
Three days.  
"Simone..."  
The swede's back - only today his Imperial Master-ness has pizza. Spicy and hot with lots of meat: sausage and ham, barbecue pork bits - smells like there's beef on there too - but no chips.  
And no hard-on. Not even for the swede (he'll thank someone for that later - he was beginning to worry).  
Not that Simone gets to enjoy the benefits of that any more than Rebecca did.  
Three days.  
He smells him before he sees him. No. That's not quite right. First he's hard, then he realises that he's smelled him, and _then_ he sees him; a fucked-up aphrodisiac of hot fried potatoes and, is that... scampi? - all wrapped up in newsprint under his arm (and where the fuck is he getting newspapers from? Is he having them printed specially to torture him with?), Tish walking two steps behind. He just strolls in with his picnic and personal maid, and then behind her a slim figure in red -  
He can't look. He doesn't want to have an unbloodied face to compare her with.  
 _Not a three, not a two, six, nine..._  
"Jack? _Jack._ Oh _Cap_ -tain, Captain Harkness? Are you in? Really Jack, you're not sulking are you? I've got something _really_ special for you today. Aw now, come on, just say hello to my friend Gwen."  
No.  
"Jack?"  
 _No._  
"Oh Ja-ack..."  
His heart should stop. Why won't his heart stop? Everything else just did. Stop pounding, stop beating, pumping blood, pumping _hard -_  
 _Gwen._  
Grid-work twists under shiny, black shoes, scarlet stilettos following, catching, staggering - kneeling down and reaching up in one stiff, determined motion.  
He won't look, won't respond. It'll only be worse (can it?) but does it matter? (it can't) Just a glimpse - just a _look_ \- still alive, just to say _sorry, I missed you, I never meant_ \- he's got to look - _I'm sorry, so sorry, it's not you, it was never_ \- just got to see - _but I hoped, wanted, because you_ \- just - _because I... Because you're_  
Blonde.  
She's _not Gwen_ blonde.  
A slap to the shoulder throws him off balance, making him groan at an incautious slurp as the wet-sounding silence fills with laughter. "Oh - you thought... you _did!_ You thought it was your little P.C. Cooper! That's _gorgeous._ Wish I'd thought of that." The Time Lord's smirking now, rubbing his hands as he shrugs. "Not that she could, being dead and all that. You'd have liked that though, wouldn't you, Jack. Your pretty little P.C. on her knees for you. Come on, sweetie. That's it, suck harder - and try and look Welsh..."  
Later, Tish brings him water. She tells the guard that she forgot before. Tells him that the Master will be upset if he gets too dehydrated. That he doesn't want him to die, not this time - not yet. She won't be a minute, she says. She'll just give him a drink and let him use the bucket.  
He doesn't want to piss. He doesn't want anything: not food, not water, not air. In fact - and he knows it's not on the Master's to-do list - what he'd really like is to die now, okay? Just for a little while. Just until it stops hurting. Until he can stay upright without the manacles and his stomach stops feeling like his throat's been slit (that would do it. Would Tish do that?). He doesn't want _anything_ \- and he's trying to tell her, turning his head, making her follow his mouth with the cup, telling her _'no'_ , telling her _'please,'_ telling her which artery and just to _'press, press hard,'_ whispers cracking at the scent of chip fat and boiled swede, rough fingers stroking the pain into _'yes,'_ into _'please'_ and _'Tish,'_ and _'thank you'_ , stroking and soothing (she can't. She's got to go before the guard sees her. He'll turn around. It's insane, there's no soapy water in the bucket, just the cup; no excuse) licked-palm damp friction just waiting to burst.  
It will, won't it? Can't it? _Please?_ Something's got to give - just like it did when the _bastard_ Master pulled her (not Gwen, not his Gwen 'cause she's dead dead dead) away (is that wrong? Shouldn't he be glad? It _hurts_ ) or maybe all that shattered was his heart?  
Three days.  
"...Toshiko. Oh - you should see your _face!_ Are you always this easy to tease? Come on, Jack, I _told_ you - they're dead. They're _all_ dead. All of them. Dead." The smirk stretches to admit a bite of battered sausage, one eyebrow rising in a perfect Prime-ministerial shrug. "Although I'm sure I could find you a nice boy in a suit if you'd like," he says, chewing, "and there's a Doctor upstairs, you know - if you wanted to complete the set. Although, I suppose you've done that already. Can't imagine the Captain letting a well-wrapped hole go to waste, can you, Tish?" He smiles at her, waiting for a reply that doesn't come, and then shrugs. "And, if you consider that they're all dead, I've saved you all the stupid human _feeling_ of watching them die one by one: getting older and withering while you stay young and handsome. No - no need to thank me..." He sighs contentedly - ever the philanthropist - and pats the kneeling woman on the head, casually coiling his fingers in her hair as he's encouraging her motions. Moving her faster, tightening his grip until her scalp shows white through the dark strands, moving her forwards and back, making her rock with the pressure; groaning and whimpering as she's struggling to suck the purple-veined thing in her mouth.  
Is that his? He can't focus, can't make his head stay still and his eyes want to close but he can't pass out now - not this close - not even though it's Tosh. He has to stop this because it's _Tosh_.  
But it's not Tosh. Tosh is dead. Quiet, gorgeous, brilliant, dead Tosh. Gorgeous Tosh with those soft, warm lips and the nervous smile. Sexy Tosh in her heels and skirt-suits, well-filled blouse and smooth belly; big, compassionate terrified dark eyes and hollowed cheeks, sucking hard and gagging, dribbling over the base of his belly and balls, dribbling down her chin as she's kneeling and sucking - _focus_ -  
Not Tosh. He closes his eyes, lets it be - he's getting closer, her mouth is moving faster, a pale hand guiding her; back and forward and back and then _pulling_ -  
As she bites down in shock the man behind her pouts ruefully, shrugging and hauling her to her feet as he's gasping and trying not to show him quite how much it _hurts_.  
Not nearly as much as listening to her beg for another chance though, to try again, to do better.  
She's not Tosh though. And of course it still matters: it's not her fault - she shouldn't be here - but she's not Tosh. And that's good. No. It's not good, because Tosh is dead. Tosh is dead, and Gwen is dead and Owen. Ianto. Everyone. Dead. All dead. The Master's a sadistic psychopathic _bastard_ of a liar - but he's heard the Earth tearing, tasted burnt flesh in the smoke choking him over his own stench; heard the people forced to watch screaming, crying, through the drowning echo of blood filling his ears - saw Tish's face, greasy soot-smuts carved by tears to a death-mask for the world, terror burned into her soul.  
The world he knew has gone: his planet, that little island and the ridiculous, magnificent, murderous empire that he helped nurture, helping it along as it started to shrivel and die; his city; his team - his family -  
They were his and they're gone. And now what's he got?  
"See you later then, Captain. Don't do anything I wouldn't."  
Nothing but hope and a heart that won't stay stopped. Hope that the Doctor might still come through. That Martha might still be alive. Hope and a hard-on. Hope -  
"Jack. It's me. I brought you something to drink."  
\- and Tish. He shakes his head; the words aren't there, he just has to hope (ha-fucking- _ha_ ) that she'll leave, that she won't come closer; not close enough to see him. Please. Don't let her come any closer. Not close enough to see.  
"Jack. Please, it's me. Just have a drink." The cup touches his lips, it smells rich - not like water -  
Big, dark compassionate eyes. Brown, not black. Tish, not Tosh. _Tish Tosh_ He should keep that to tell Ianto. He'll enjoy that. He'd laugh. If he wasn't _dead_. Because they're all dead. _All_. All of them. All dead.  
He'd like to be dead. Even if it doesn't last. He can't ask her though, not again. Not when she brought milk. Can he?  
"Tish..."  
"Yes, me."  
There's a hand on his cheek. A warm body close by. It's Tish and she brought him milk to drink. And it's not swede and she smells like stale cooking fat and someone's cleaning cupboard, but it's _Tish..._  
"Please?"  
It doesn't make sense; how can his blood rise so high when his legs will barely hold him up - and why can't it drown him? Maybe he's dead already (all the angels are in Hell, so that explains Tish), but if he's already dead then why does it still hurt?  
And why is it so much worse when she's trying to smile for him?  
When they get out of here he's going to see her smile for _her_. He'll thank her properly; pamper her - remind her how this is supposed to go - remind _himself._  
Three days.  
The world smells of chips. Fresh, hot chips.  
"This is Kathy - no, sorry, Suzie - Rose - no - Oh I don't know. You don't mind what Jack calls you, do you sweetheart? Just so long as he's pleased to see you."  
It's got to be the fumes - they're making him light-headed. He just can't _remember_ -  
(They can't all eat chips all the while, not even for him. There must just be a vat of them somewhere. A big vat of hot chips with a fan behind it, somewhere just out of sight. Maybe somewhere nearby, a great big vat of hot chips)  
What the fuck was he called? Michael Palin with tomato sauced chips (is it behind him? He's already looked but it might be there now) _chips_ up his nose and tears running down his face, trying not to stutter, because every stutter made the insane lover-boyfriend madder made him eat it down whole -  
Don't think about it. Think about the film. What was his _name?_  
Archie? No. Fuck. Kevin? Doesn't sound right. Wanda? No, because that was the fish, the fish the woman - the fish - both?  
He can't ask Tish. She might think he's cracked. She might stop.  
Three days.  
"Meet Madeleine..."  
He's been tortured before; it's part of the training. He knows the hallucinations - welcomes them, because there's nothing to tell and it's prettier there than in the hold of the _Valiant._ Better company too: rough fingertips and a spit-wet palm (her spit, not his - he can't spare it), who'd have guessed his life as a prisoner would consist of being sucked and then jerked off?  
The swede and the smell of chips he could have done without. That and that bastard shiny smile.  
"Jack?"  
Is it later again? How does it keep doing that? Did he doze off?  
"Jack, it's me, Tish. I've got something for you."  
Bright, glistening eyes and a glint in her hand, and then she shows him the dull-silver shine there. No soap and no cloth, but she's nervous. More than nervous; scared - excited. He swallows the taste of salt and offers his throat instead. What else could it be?  
"Make it quick, I'll be gone and back before you know it - god, thank you, Tish. _Thank_ you."  
" _No_ \- I just... Here."  
She peels back the silver, unwrapping a thin greyish-white stick that she puts to his lips. He can smell it now. Mint. Mouth open it's intense on his tongue. Shockingly sweet.  
"It's gum. I though you might..." The gesture's hopeless, the light in her eyes starting to drown. "I thought it might make your mouth taste better, you know?"  
Three days.  
"Say hello to Chrissie..."  
He doesn't want to look. He doesn't have to look; even if he can't see the mouth swallowing him whole it's still there. Until it's gone, anyway, and then there's nothing but the flavour of want and the sound of pain in the air. Nothing but the renewed, rough promise of a zip that if he moves just like _that_ grates hard. Hard enough to draw blood, but never quite enough for anything else. He's got to keep going though, because it's friction and it itches and _damn_ but that's a good scratch, and if he can make it just a little harder, then -  
And then Tish is there (they went? Didn't they say goodbye? That was rude), shushing him, stopping him moving, finding him and steadying him - starting again -  
She's close, so close - smooth cloth under his cheek, her own smell of work-sweat and soap - and it hurts so fucking good he can't hold it: biting cloth, biting skin through cloth, breathing hard and tasting her sweat through the cotton, scraping his tongue over _texture;_ wet cotton and rough skin rubbing the defiantly smooth slide of skin-under-skin through wince and apology. "God, Jack - sorry. It's the scrubbing. My hands are really rough. Do you want me to - should I stop?'  
"No. Don't. _Don't_. Don't _ever_ -"  
He can't hide under the words, losing the words under his breath, losing his breath to the hollows and dents of her throat - losing himself in the flavour of Tish. Trying to curl up inside and forget, just for a moment, just while it lasts. Because what could he say - that he'll save her? Offer to take her away from all this?  
 _It's a joke. Really, it's all just a joke. It's not real - it's impossible, but so am I and I'm real. Can you see me? I just need to see you smile - can't you smile? Please? For me?_  
There's nothing he can say. Nothing. Just drink the milk (again. Is she getting enough for herself? He'd ask to lick her hand, after, but he's afraid she might not ever kiss him then) and say nothing. Nothing.  
"No, nothing - I'm okay, really, just thank you, _thank you._ "  
Three days.  
"- Zoe. Come on now, Jack, I know you've got better manners than that. Let Zoe see how much you appreciate her efforts."  
 _Two, three, five (breathe) two - two (_ breathe _, breathe) two?_  
"Although I think," he says, "that I'm going to have to start thinking about professionals. So disappointing, these amateurs. Great in the morning, and by afternoon..." The sigh's trying for regretful with a hint of irony, but the smirk's too eager to play and the Time Lord's sniggering as he scrunches up his newspaper. "Well," he adds, "can't hang around here gassing all day. Not like _some_ people. Sweet dreams, Captain. Spare me a thought while you're lazing down here, can you? And poor Tish, too. Always working: cleaning, cooking, scrubbing... Have you seen the state of her hands? All rough and hard. It's such a shame."  
 _Fuckfuckfuck_ fuck  
And then Tish...  
She's gone. He's gone and she's gone (and Zoe. He mustn't forget Zoe) because she left when he left, but it's later now. It's always later and Tish isn't there. Where _is_ she? She's got to be there, got to help, _can't_ help (let it burst let it burst let it _bleed_ \- let it _stop_ ) - doesn't she know he needs her to come? He can't come if she doesn't come and it _hurts_ -  
 _...such a shame_  
"Jack?"  
It's dark. It's never _dark_ but it's dark enough: dark cloth and hair a shaft of shadow against the night, enough light to see the small, soft smile as she stops, one hand on his chest.  
"I'm here. I couldn't get away before, but -"  
"Sorry, no one home."  
It won't do the decent thing and to kill him, but if he holds his breath long enough he might just pass out again. It's hard on the shoulders but it's better than smelling Tish; soft warm soap-and-sweat concerned Tish -  
 _Rough hands, hard hands - such a shame..._  
"It's all right, Jack. It's just us here. It's okay. I'll help."  
"I went to the pub at lunchtime - couldn't touch another drop."  
" _Please_."  
"And I already ate."  
"Jack, please. I know it's sore, just let me -"  
"I had the chips. Have you tried the chips? They're good today. You should try them."  
" _Don't -_ "  
"Thank you, come again."  
He won't let her he won't he _will not_.  
Three days. A full cycle of hell, filled with demons called Jones (Daddy Jones and Mummy Jones and sweet little Tish). Only now it's time for lunch, and today's treat -  
(Hot swede and cold swede and swede that's _just_ right)  
 _Today's_ treat -  
The swede has salt. He used to like it hot, with gravy. She'd fry it up the next day. Pot of tea to share and the paper.  
Today's treat -  
She's got dark hair. Long, dark hair and dead blue eyes and there she is now, kneeling at his feet. Waiting.  
She was standing by the supper-table, ignoring the spam sandwiches (It was no more than they deserved, but they weren't wasted. No wasted food then. Not like now - all those chips). He told her that the prettiest girl in the room should be dancing with the best-looking guy. She said he was very kind, and asked if he'd let her know when he got there.  
"Jack, Estelle. Estelle - meet the Captain..."  
She's so beautiful. She always was. But all the same, it's not her. It can't be - the bastard fucked himself over to fuck them worse: no travelling-time for the Time Lord now - but she's close enough. Too close; because if he knows about her then what else might he know? _Who_ else?  
Tish smiles at him. She can't smile; it's not safe to - not at him. She does it anyway. Just lets her lips curl for a second, after, as she's hiding his shame. Tish finds him a smile - just something sweet to leave him with in spite of the blood. _Because_ of the blood - so he knows that she knows. And did he see what she did for him? Salt. She put salt in the swede.  
It _hurts_.  
Tish doesn't know and he can't say - and then they're gone, and there's no one but him and the guard.  
He can't ask now. He should, just a simple 'hey, did you ever see that film...?' but the words don't seem to want to come out and he can't let them _see_ and then -  
"Jack?"  
It's later. It's always later. Never earlier - why is it never earlier any more? It's later and he's hot and wet in her hands again, shaking in her hands - again - and on her shoulder; damp cloth under his cheek and her breath in his face.  
He could kiss her now - risk the thought for a feeling, let go of something before it breaks him open - because it's later and it's quiet now; no engine-noise, nothing. Just Tish's breath on his cheek, the loud crackle of nerves stretching tight between no, yes and _thankyou_. No sound and no need to hide, because the guard's gone again. It's a game. The guard never goes unless his Master wants him gone. And if _he_ wants him gone -  
"Jack?"  
She's close, all the salt-sweat fear of her, she's close and she should be gone. He's done now, wiped clean on a less-crusty patch of stiff cloth and tucked away. _Serviced._ He hasn't kissed her and she should be gone before he does something she'll regret (he just keeps breathing, his list stops there).  
"Are you ready?"  
"What for?"  
"What you wanted - you wanted..."  
Closer still now, she rests her head on his chest, arms unfolding to wrap him so tight.  
"Tish?"  
Another hug and she looks up, stroking his back, wet cheek to his cheek, feeling down, counting ribs with a kiss for his jaw and a plea - "just... be quick," as she's pressing on his back - pressing hard, sharp and sliding, scraping bone, cutting in, pushing _in_ \-- and her eyes are shining but she catches his gasp with her lips and swallows it down.  
It _hurts._  
And then it doesn't.  
When he comes back she's still holding him, taking the strain off his shoulders, her knees cracking under his dead-weight.  
He stands slowly, savouring her closeness. "How long?" he says, "Tish, god, thank you, but -"  
" _Shhh._ "  
She checks over her shoulder, tells him _'it's all right,_ ' then hugs him and says:  
"I've got to go."  
Nothing's changed. Nothing more than everything. Nothing at all. This is normal for them. This is what they are. Her eyes always look shiny, after, and when was the last time she touched him without her hands shaking? And they're not _them_ , they're just him and her, and anyway -  
Where's she going?  
"Tish."  
She won't look at him. Tucks the knife up under her skirt, turns her face away, moving away. "I've got to go."  
Her voice is thick. She sniffs, still walking. Slowly. Reluctantly.  
"Tish, _please_ -"  
"I can't. I've got to go. Jack - please, just..."  
Her face is wet against his, her mouth as warm and as sweet as he ever imagined. And then she's gone.  
She's gone. And what would he say anyway?  
Three days.  
Nothing's changed. It's still later. Daddy Jones and Mummy Jones, bucket and hose and three long days - the same rattle and clank, the same stale water in the same tin mug, the same silent guards with the same unreachable guns.  
Nothing's changed. It's still lunchtime. It's time for his lunch and the smell of chips is hot and strong. It's lunchtime and he's hungry; rewound, reset, rebooted - _ravenous_ \- but there are chips in the vicinity (twenty yards and closing) and there are things in that smell that his body expects, things it wants, needs - _craves..._  
Nothing's changed. And if he keeps telling himself that then maybe he'll believe it before they get here, because _nothing's changed_ and he's got nothing - nothing but hope and a hard-on and -  
There they are; right on cue. He's carrying the paper-wrapped parcel, wearing his cheerful bastard smile with a white shirt and a new tie, shoes shining under perfectly turned hems. It's safer to look down. Safer just not to look - but not until he's caught a glimpse... there; black cotton, flat shoes and shapely ankles, that ridiculous uniform. And then another; crimson stilettos and dark stockings (has to be stockings. What the fuck has he got planned this time; a lap-dance?), skirt a flare of blood-shaded silk around her knees.  
He's not looking. Nothing's changed and it can't be any other way. He can't be stronger - or weak - can't be anything. He can't be seen, and he can't _look._  
The paper rustles, the smell getting stronger, loud enough to drown the murmur of demand and demur in blood. There, see? He's wagging his tail - just like a good dog. Wagging his bone and waiting for his lunch to be served. All that yummy swede and then after... No. No looking. No thinking. Eyes shut, breathe the chips and think up the blood - let the blood-pressure work itself up. Be silent, don't look and just _smell_ \- chips and... haddock?  
Hesitancy, confusion - the sound of skin hitting skin (haddock. Think about haddock. Where the hell did the bastard get haddock from?) and then skin touching him: unzipping, unbuttoning - swede on a cold spoon; warm lips on his prick. More swede and more tongue. Blunt fingertips scraping one thigh as the spoon scrapes the tin. More swede and then _suck_ -  
"Aren't you enjoying it, Jack? Come on now, show willing - Tish puts so much effort into making your lunchtimes special."  
The spoon hits his teeth this time, vibrating through his gums - sweat and chip-fat, something sour and new and the smell of arousal vying with vinegar, wet sucking slurps and rustling paper. And then he's laughing - the bastard's laughing - don't look, just don't look -  
"Ooh, yes - she's good. That's good, Jack, look, come on, you're missing out here - aren't you going to watch?"  
Nothing he can do, nothing he can defy him over - nothing but refusing to _see_. There's nothing he can do about his body but his mind's his own. He won't look. Won't see another pretty face worn blank with fear, crazed to her knees, mouth wide - and he can't look at _her_ either, not now. Can't let him see, can't let him _know_. No more than he does already. He'll just use it: his weakness; Tish's compassion - and he won't let her suffer it for him. He won't look. He won't let her help him again. He won't - _can't_. And after - after it stops after _he's_ gone again - _after..._  
Blood calls, follows blood. A rough-smooth hand and a smooth cheek and he knows he's too weak not to drown in the thought of soft-brown eyes, but can't he even die trying?  
"Dinner's good today - don't you like yours? New cook; takes pride in her work, _cares._ It's nice when someone cares, isn't it. You know what that's like, right, Jack?"  
Does he ever shut up? Eat the swede, eat the cold fucking mashed swede - no salt _no butter no pepper_ \- and just let go. She (no name, no face, no guilt - right? Got to be better - keep those eyes _shut_ , soldier) - _sheorheorit_ can do what he says, he'll get tired of this game. And then Tish can go back to hosing blood off the walls and he'll be able to look at her again without seeing her bleeding. They're going to survive this. They're going to go _home_.  
"I mean, it took a bit of work, the best things are always worth waiting for - but you've got to admit it was worth it."  
The bastard's voice is insistent, scratching too close at his senses to do more than just _feel_. Feeling's not good. It's too good to be good. Eyes closed tighter as the dull ache spreads; a grinding groan that starts in his gut, spreading up and down and cramping thigh muscles over the swede-spoon-scrape (she hates this as much as he does), spreading gooseflesh, prickling over untouched skin. The craving won't contain itself - he's in control but there's nothing he can do - not long, not long now, he's getting close, a little closer and then it'll stop (scrape, swede, spoon, scrape) a little more (roughly now, the cold bowl pressing hard on his tongue as a groan shakes over it) a little more and it'll _stop_ (scrape) he'd never let him (spoon, swede) _never..._  
Swallow, spoon, scrape scrape. Her hand's shaking. She's shaking. A rough breath catching, a sniff, and then a sob.  
He's going to kill him. He's going to _enjoy_ killing him.  
Rough fingertips tighten, smoothing clammy flesh and stroking gently, softly, a cold palm cupping tender, aching balls as the spoon grates hard on his lip, seasoning swede with salt and copper, spooning quickly, more swede; another scrape - but he's close now (she can kill him too, they'll take turns - she'll like that) so close that if the bastard doesn't pull her back soon...  
But he will, because he _can't_ come - not now. He can't come, because if he comes then Tish won't, because she might not think he needs her. She might think that's all he needed and then he won't see her at all.  
No, it'll stop. Of course it'll stop. But he's so (later, he'll see Tish later, because it'll stop) so _close_ (and he'll tell her then. After. Lips to her ear with his head on her shoulder, let those perfect rough-smooth fingertips take away the pain. Tell her _after_ ). Another stroke, a squeeze (and Tish won't let him down; she'll come - whether he does or not), but he's _godsoclosenearlythere_ \- just a stroke, and then another, a squeeze as she strokes and then _sucks_ \--  
His legs shake with no one to hold him, no ear by his mouth to catch his gratitude, no breath and worn cotton, just the mechanical shovel and scrape of swede and silk rasping on skin as he sucks air. Sucking wet, claggy, sulphur-stinking mush into stunned lungs, gasping air until he's heaving, sticky and dry, gasping and sniffing, coughing up strings of swede-flecked phlegm as that wet mouth and rough-smooth fingertips tighten again, a thumb ticking nervously, pressing his thigh from convulsion through reflux.  
It's all over so soon. The last metallic scrape, a final wet noise and then there's nothing but the sour reek of bile in his nose, raw skin in his throat burning. His head's hanging low, arms tensed in apprehension - expectation - strung loose, worn elastic released, too loose to hold his legs up, too nauseated by selfish weakness to look. Let her hate him, whoever she is - was - there's nothing he can do. Not here, not now. Nothing but swallow the guilt with the bile and hope that this was what he wanted. Maybe this time will be the last. Maybe this time he'll be pleased, amused - disgusted? whatever - if he'd just _be fucking merciful..._  
"Come on now, Tish. You don't expect Jack to do himself up, do you?" It's his coaxing voice, his _I'm better than you and can afford to be magnanimous_ voice, the one he keeps for use with recalcitrant pets. She hasn't moved though, still holding the spoon to his lips. The other woman hasn't shifted yet either. He can feel her dress against his shins, he can _smell_ her; cloth dyes, sweat and perfume - oestrogen and fear. The scent of Tish nearby is comforting - and there's no sound of skin on skin - no blows. He's either waiting until he looks or maybe...  
Fine. If he's got to look then he'll look. Whoever-she-is will only suffer more if he doesn't. But is it safe to look at Tish? Just to look - just to see... No. Not yet. Ignore her. There'll be later. There will be. She won't abandon him now.  
The spoon draws back as he opens his eyes, a quiet sniff beside his left ear and the rattle of metal on metal as the woman at his feet begins to shift. He's got to do it. Got to get it over with and then he can see Tish, even if he can't talk to her. He'll see -  
" _There's_ a good girl. That's right, do him up. You can't leave your messes for mummy now, can you."  
Because then he'll see -  
She's got dark hair, this woman at his feet. Dark hair gathered tight across her scalp, pulled back into a little scut of a tail. Dark hair and smooth cinnamon skin - and she's gorgeous. As gorgeous as she ever looked in the stupid uniform, even dressed like a sex-doll in crimson silk.  
Tish.  
She doesn't look up. She looks down at the hands on her crimson-swathed knees. Hard-working hands, slim fingers with perfect rough-smooth fingertips. Kind, clever hands that tremble as she reaches up, slumped shoulders straightening, long, mascara-clogged lashes glinting as another sooty trail glistens down a mottled cheek.  
 _Tish._  
She doesn't look at him. She wipes the lipstick off him and zips him away, but she doesn't look at him.  
She doesn't look at him, and the chains won't give and he can't touch her, can't protect her, can't speak to her - because what would he say? He can't even see her eyes now. Nothing but darker red patches on stained crimson silk and smooth, dark hair. She's just kneeling at his feet and he can't look away: not up at her mother's chiselled eyebrows and swollen, red eyes - not at the smirking bastard fucking smug Time Lord -  
"There, Jack," he says, "you see? I told you she was good. Not as good as she was this morning, from the looks of you, but I think I'll keep her all the same. She can give Lucy lessons - once I've disinfected her properly, of course." And then his nose wrinkles and he sniffs, smirking down at the mess of spilled swede, snot, drool and come on the rubbed-shiny spars as he's pulling her (Tish, that's _Tish_ ) to her feet. "But... Oh dear," he tuts, his smile turning reproachful. "I think someone's been having too much fun and forgotten his manners. Aren't you going to say _thank you_ today, Jack? That's not like you."


End file.
